On my way
It is not like
my sorrow has ended.
my sorrow has ended.
The room did not alter
when he came in.
Not anymore.
Words have loosened
and gone are
the invented phrases.
The islands are silent now.
Sea at rest and
the wind is unimposing.
My love is of no use
for him who never was
Not his fault.
My endless journey has
started long before he
dared to dream
in the midst of my rumination,
he walked back to
his true self
1 comment:
expectations run deep in our psyche. oftentimes, they aren't met. as humans, that's our fate. our blessing and our curse. i guess the best course of action then is to have the courage to keep on moving. to be still and to live in the past is to suffer ennui.
who is your favorite poet? mine are the two emilys: emily bronte and emily dickinson.
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